


Male Reader X The Hunter (trap, yaoi)

by CampGreen



Category: Left 4 Dead (Video Games)
Genre: Horror, Literature, M/M, fan fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-12-04 05:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11548383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CampGreen/pseuds/CampGreen
Summary: This one's a shorty but a goodie. My very first male X male story. Left 4 Dead is owned by Valve.





	Male Reader X The Hunter (trap, yaoi)

**4 WEEKS AFTER FIRST INFECTION**

You look outside the safe house window as rain patters against the glass. The gloomy, ravaged streets of Fairfield used to be bright and romantic. Well, of course, that's probably just childhood nostalgia exaggerating your memory, but it sure looked like a utopia compared to nowadays. This was _your_ town. Until _they_ took it from you. The Infected. The Green Flu, that's what CEDA calls it. It's wasted all of southern and western America and twisted it into a zombie-infested no man's land. The moment your party found the slaughtered remains of a military squad, you knew all hope was lost. Your party getting massacred by a Tank and you being the sole survivor didn't make an optimist of you either. Now that you're alone, the only thing you can do is survive. Survive until...whatever. You've been managing to distract yourself with micro-objectives to keep you from going insane from the despair. This time, it's to get to the convenience store on the curb of the next block over. You caught a glimpse of it last time your party was over there. It should house enough food and supplies for you to hold out for at least a week. But until you get there, you have an army's worth of zombies to gun your way through first. You pop a magazine into your M16, pocket the molotov cocktail you just built, and rip the crash-bar off from the safe room's door to unlock it. 

You step into the rain and begin jogging down the street. The Common Infected hear your boots stomping around in the puddles and start frantically sprinting at you. You fling the butt of your carbine into the first one's head, sending him to the pavement, and unload about half a magazine's worth of ammo into the trio that followed behind him, cutting them down like weeds. You finish the first one off with a blast to the skull from your P220 before he can even get to his feet, and the barrage of gunfire lures a horde over. You place them in your crosshairs but suddenly a pink, slimy tendril wraps around the barrel of your gun and yanks it out of your hands, sending it clattering into the gutter. Before you can reach for it, this time the Smoker seizes you so your torso is entangled within the squeeze of a bloated, firehose-like tongue. You try to struggle but the Smoker's grip only tightens as it drags you up the side of the building it's perched on. Your fingertips just manage to touch the metal handle of your pistol resting in your pocket, and you rip the weapon out of your pants to unload four panic-stricken shots that rip through the moist web like a machete slicing through jungle foliage, dropping you back onto the sidewalk and killing the Smoker. The horde still advances, swallowing your M16 in their approach and leaving you with nothing but your pistol and molotov. 

As you fish the makeshift grenade off your belt, you catch a Charger out of the corner of your eye, which you down with ten precise headshots from your P220. You light the rag bleeding out from the top of the alcohol bottle's neck with a memento from one of your fellow survivors, a lighter, and hurriedly chunk it at the swarm of zombies before the rain extinguishes it. In the explosion that singes the sleeves of your shirt, about a dozen zombies go up in flames, and you slip away from all of the fiery chaos into a quiet alleyway, messily littered with dumpsters, trashcans, and stacks of cardboard boxes. The end of this alley should bring you to the street you're looking for, if your memory is correct. Holding your pistol close to your face, you cautiously creep through the alley, ready to pull the trigger in case an Infected decides to show its ugly face. Sure enough, a black figure drops from one of the rooftops into the light ray of a lamppost, rainfall showering its shape. It's a Hunter. You can tell by the drab sweat-clothes shrouding his curvaceous, athletic body. From head to toe he's drenched in the blood of one of his past meals, and the hood flicked over his head casts a shadow upon the upper half of his face, so all you can see are those razor sharp fangs peeking out from that fiendish grin. He flourishes his talon-like fingernails and gets into a crouch, ready to pounce like a predator. You take aim with your pistol and squeeze the trigger.

_Click._

Oh shit. The Hunter's animalistic shriek bellows throughout the alleyway and he springs forward from his hind legs faster than your eyes can register. All of a sudden, the back of your head smashes against the ground and you're staring into the shade concealing his eyes from only a few inches above. His blood soaked hands have your wrists pinned to the concrete. Despite his slender looks, his strength is irresistible. If he wanted to, he could sink his fangs into your neck and rip your vocal cords out with one firm chomp. But instead of planting a bite, he plants...a kiss. A sweet, brisk smooch on your jugular, then another on your cheek, then a third one your lips. A tongue slithers into your mouth and starts coiling around yours like a snake strangling its prey. What is happening? You thought these things were mindless killing machines, incapable of any emotion, let alone passion, or lust. As your penis starts to press against your pants, the Hunter shreds your shirt down the middle with a slash you were expecting to kill you, and spirals the tip of his tongue around both of your nipples, so hard they could slice diamond. He moves down to your crotch, tearing a large window in your pants to connect your boner and the night's cold air. He sheds himself of his sweatpants, which would've made him ass naked if it weren't for the navy sweatshirt hanging on him like a rag, and with his two soles, the Hunter takes a stern grasp around your shaft, smothering your balls in blood. He starts softly massaging your pounding cock with his toes, making your entire body twitch and recoil as euphoria spreads from your groin to every other fiber you have. 

After tenderizing your cock with a footjob, he gives it a bath with the wetness of his tongue, lubricating it and making you squeal like a little girl. You should be thinking that if it weren't for the fact you forgot to reload, you would've blown this thing's brains out, and now it's inexplicably fucking you like a prostitute. However, the gale of elation erupting from inside of you distracts from that nonsense, stripping you down to your most basic human instincts to absorb in all of the immeasurable gratification perfectly tickling your nerves. Finally he turns around and sits on your well-prepared erection, giving you a front row seat to his immense, jellylike ass as it bounces and jiggles up and down with his hips. He has an ass, hell, an entire body most women would kill for. Your moist boner is securely slipped in between his butt-cheeks and is expertly molded by the skintight interior of his rectum. As he speedily squats with your dick crammed in his asshole, he flicks his stare back and flashes you with a risque, almost sadistic curl of his lips as they thirstily drool. The euphoria all takes the shape of one big messy discharge that spews out of your urethra. The Hunter's lightning fast reflexes have him pull out at the last second so the geyser of cum coats his back, reaching all the way up to the peak of his hood and splashing onto his face. The rain quickly washes it all away, but he catches one big glob off his cheek with a wipe of his bloody index finger, which he slides into his mouth, wicked smile never faltering. 

Then he turns around and re-positions his butt on your chest, so his three inch, pulsating penis is knocking on the door of your lips. He rests his claws on your head and eases his member into your mouth, stuffing you full of him. Figuring there's no going back at this point, you launder his veiny, rigid cock with the roof of your tongue, licking and slurping away at the precum oozing out of his urethra by the teaspoons. He makes no noise, only shadily beaming at you as you blow him. After a short while, the modest thing starts to spasm and your mouth is overflowed with his cumshot, and he pops the now flaccid organ out of your mouth as you choke on his spoonfuls of semen. You give one big satisfied gulp as he again rests his chest on yours and sloppily trails his tongue across your face, adoringly licking your cheek like a happy dog, before hopping up, parkouring his way up a fire escape, and disappearing in the midst of the rainstorm as quickly and mysteriously as he appeared. You're left in the cold drizzle and in the tattered remains of your clothes to soak in the rainfall and blood, swarm of hormones dying down in your brain. Did you just get fucked by a zombie? This outbreak has been wreaking havoc on the US for 28 days and never once have you ever heard of the Infected going wild. Utterly confused, you weakly rise to your feet, reload your P220, and start continuing back down the alley, gun at the ready in one hand and exposed genitals cupped in the other. You better not get a cold, buck naked out in the rain like this...

**_The Survivor has escaped!_ **

**_(Y/N) as Himself_ **

**_Total mission time: 14 minutes_ **

**_Molotovs used: 1 - (Y/N)_ **

**_Common Infected killed: 16_ **

**_Chargers killed: 1_ **

**_Smokers killed: 1_ **

**_18 zombies were harmed in the making of this film. And one Hunter was fucked._ **


End file.
